


Through the Hawk's Eye

by Colms



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age II, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: F/M, just throw me in the trash where i belong, like i mean technically it could be male hawke too i'm pretty sure i was vague on the gender front
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-15
Updated: 2015-05-15
Packaged: 2018-03-30 17:24:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,207
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3945322
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Colms/pseuds/Colms
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The storyteller isn't the only one with the gift of observation.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Through the Hawk's Eye

**Author's Note:**

> Will I ever stop writing second-person present tense for Hawke? The answer is: no, probably not.

This is what you see the first time you see him:

He has the world in the gleam of his eye. The way he talks is a little too smooth not to be rehearsed (you’ll figure out later that the whole thing was staged—you will figure out that he really is that good at talking himself in and out of situations, and you will be the one to trip over his silver tongue) but he’s giving you an opportunity, and you like people with initiative. Even better when they can make a proper entrance.

This is what you see when you look at him:

There are bruise-like smears under his eyes and a new crease in his brow, either from Merchant’s Guild business or writer’s block, though you do not know which. Still, he keeps his eyes focused. This is far from the first time he has had to be wary for attackers; he has faced his own Blights. Yours are simply a new breed of an old eventuality.

He has ink stains and oil on his calloused fingers, and what looks like the remnants of a bloodstain on the shoulder of his duster. You can count the years of your friendship in his laughter lines (you’d never admit it, not to him and not to yourself, but you love every new wrinkle). He has faced many things and you are still young, too young, to understand his burdens. Maybe you will never be old enough. You will face your demons in time, different demons, similar demons, demons you created and demons created by others. Right now you see the tired tautness of his shoulders and the proud curve of his mouth and you wonder if you’ll ever be old enough to stand eye to eye with him.

He sees you, but you sometimes wonder if it’s the writer only, seeing a new story: a farce, maybe, or worse, a tragedy. He sees you, but sometimes you can’t even see yourself. You wonder what he sees.

Instead, you see him:

You see the shadows on his face, harsh red and burnished orange and gold; you see the sunken ships of drowned sailors, you see your burning city reflected in amber oceans. They are on fire, everything is on fire. He is on fire and you are too: you are burned when your hand brushes across his shoulder and you face the truth.

You did this. You couldn’t save everyone, or anyone, and now comes your exile. You’ve exiled him, too (not the first time; not the last time), and you see the line of his lips drawn thin. He still manages a smile and a laugh for you, for himself, for the others, and you see that his shoulders do not shake with mirth like they usually do. You see the city behind him, burning, as you pull him close and promise to write.

You do not see the way he looks at you as you walk away.

This is what you see when you are apart:

Your home has been razed to the dirt multiple times over, but it is not the same story elsewhere. If there is one thing he taught you best, it is that there are stories everywhere, tucked into nooks and crannies, hidden in the knots of withered trees and the hushed moments between two people. There is still life. Your life has gone up in flames, but here, spring has taken root quietly and green buds begin to peek out shyly amidst the willow’s weeping branches. Even sorrow can beget life.

You learned a long time ago his distaste for all things underground: it was there, after all, that you lost your brother and he found he never had one. You learn a new distaste for the work of the Wardens now, but it keeps you moving, and you always did have trouble sitting still. You see things and you write them down for him to use in his stories.You see death, but you see hope, too, in all the lives that have yet to be quenched. These people deserve to be heroes more than you ever did, and you tell him as much. _Maybe it’s the ordinary people who deserve to have their stories told,_ you write. _The only thing I can do right most of the time is stay alive._

He sees hope, but he sees death, too. He sees new faces, but none of them fit the moulds of those he has lost. You cannot be there. You are, after all, better at starting fires than putting them out. Kirkwall taught you this.

You will, however, run when he calls. You always do.

He calls. You run.

This is what you see when you are reunited:

His shoulders look heavier than they used to, both with use and with burden. The new scars match the new lines on his face; you do not know the stories behind the scars, and you see that the lines are from exhaustion and strain, not laughter. This makes you sad and strangely uncomfortable. Has he always been so small? You could have sworn he stood taller before. He smiles, but it trips over the new wrinkles and cannot find his eyes. He is even older, but you are, too. You smile and you swear to yourself that you will make him laugh again.

You are older. You sit down over drinks and you see eye to eye. Nothing has changed, but everything has changed.

This is what you see when he leaves the Rift:

He glances back for you. You cannot die here. Not when there is someone who will be waiting for you.

This is what you see when you emerge:

His face, relieved. “You didn’t think I’d leave my favourite dwarf, did you? That would have been terribly insensitive of me,” you say. He laughs into your shoulder.

And this, this is what you see even though he is always the one to see what others don’t:

You see him. You see the man behind all the outrageous stories, between all the lies, between the ruses and the façades and the shitty ale. You see the storyteller. A heart of gold and a tongue of silver, one who will bleed before they see another hurt. A hero in his own right, the person who gave you the power to achieve great things, who gave you the power to be vulnerable and human, or to be invincible and strong. You don’t know it, but you see the same things in him that he saw in you: a light that guides, warms, protects. You see a writer and an observer and a brother and a friend, a man who had so much to offer his family. They, apparently, couldn’t see what you do.

You don’t understand why. It’s so obvious to you that you don’t know how others don’t see what you see. Maybe it’s a matter of perspective. Whatever it is, you are content to read between the lines (like he taught you) and see him as he deserves to be seen. It’s a wonder you can see as much as you do, with the sun in your eyes.


End file.
